


The Crossroad of Who We Could Be

by RbnSS



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:20:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RbnSS/pseuds/RbnSS
Summary: New beginnings aren't always a good thing, especially for Bruce Wayne.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This universe nor the characters are not based on any specific comic.

His heart is beating in rhythm with the slow and steady heart monitor. He's not aware of this, but he does recognize the noise. At first, it was soothing, and a sudden surge of excitement and relief prompted the heart monitor to stir a little. However, after an imprecise amount of time had passed, the soft continuous beeping goaded him to clench his fist in exasperation.

Except he didn't. Not because he once spent years teaching himself to be capable of tolerating any sort of torment, but because he was physically incapable of doing so.

He's not sure how long he's been laying there. He feels like it should worry him more than it does. But a much more demanding part of his mind wants to never move again, to indulge in the empty space. Perhaps, prior to this new embedment, he made this indulging and persuasive voice vanish under a black cape, but now he's covered in a raggy blanket and to his subconscious's surprise, he's never felt more comfortable. Not in years.

The days are drawn out long, sometimes he could feel the seconds tiptoeing away, other times he's not sure whether he's alive anymore. Then the heart monitor becomes soothing again.

He's thinking, but not exactly. Fragments of unfinished sentences tangos in his head, and then disappears. He believes he was thinking before another noise interrupted his thoughts. It's footsteps. Multiple of them. One very steady and quiet. The other hesitant. The last one is much stronger, more demanding.

He catches glimpses of the conversation.

"He has severe- the hippocampus - we may have to move him to the upper- alright?" It's definitely a woman. He thinks he's heard her before. The voice links to the words "painkillers".

"Is he going to be okay?" The next voice is almost booming, but perhaps it's just new and more close to him than he expected.

He doesn't hear the response. Besides a door slamming, but it's too difficult to tell whether it happened just after, or if it happened hours later. Time is a strange concept in a state without sun.

"We're going to try something new, okay Bruce?"

It dawned onto him one day that the name Bruce must be relevant to him. The noises were trifling, even when someone appeared to be talking, but they all seemed to emphasize the word "Bruce". Perhaps it belonged to him. He considered debating whether that was true or false, but before he can begin, another thought had cut him off, and suddenly he was back to watching the back of his eyelids, with nothing but empty air swishing in his head and pounding at the sides.

His skull felt like it was being compressed. His skin was burning. His head throbbed with an intense excruciating pain that lined his spine. He was screaming. He wanted help. He questioned why the people here weren't helping him. Were they watching him scream? He bet they were. They want to torture him. They want to rip him down into a weak, pathetic man who can't save anyone, including himself. He is vulnerable. He is the monster. He is terrifying. He is unlovable. He is not here. He is the reason why. He will not be enough to save anyone, not even his own blood.

The nurse said something about switching back the meds, "it's causing his heart to elevate". He wonders if the other ones weren't working.

He felt his heart ache when he heard quick and smooth words of something sincere, although it was far too jumbled and he couldn't comprehend any of it. It was female again. The voice was unheard of. He felt something rough on his skin. The touch left as quick as a cat.

"We have money. Lots of it," A desperate and tired voice wrenched out possibly a few days later, or maybe just after the women left. "We'll pay for as long as it takes. Get him better."

"We're sorry, there is not much else we could do."

He wondered what they were talking about. They were much louder. It must be a heated conversation.

"Yes, there is! Don't lie to me, there is. There is."

Another voice. Older. British. Sad. "Perhaps Master Grayson and I should say our goodbyes, for good measures."

He wanted to reach out. What a weird urge to have. Mr.Grayson could be anyone.

The back in fourth discourse continued, except he wasn't sure what it was about anymore. He wasn't sure if he ever knew. He thinks he did. Vaguely.

He felt two hands tight on each of his shoulders, squeezing into his clavicle. "Bruce," A grave, despairing man enjoined him critically, "if you're in there, you need to fight harder than you've ever fought before. We're not going down like this. We need you. Gotham needs- fuck Gotham, I need you."

He wonders if this is a last ditch effort. His death may be approaching. He wonders how he got to that conclusion. He tries to zone out the man's shaking voice and listened for the heart monitor. Its's beeping at the same rate as before.

When he tries to find the man's voice again, it was already gone. So was the grip on his shoulders.

Suddenly he was greeted with a very familiar feeling. It grasped his heart and clogged his lungs and choked his throat. He would give anything to open his eyes at that moment. Anything to change the sorrow surrounding him.

Heat rose to his face. The beeping had submerged into silence. He must be dead now.

"Master Wayne, allow me, if you will." A man with dark hair and thin lines on his straight face beckoned him closer. He reached out and fixed the tie that hung loosely around young Bruce Wayne's neck. He didn't meet his butler's gaze but murmured a thank you. Deep despair, the type of dejection that came from losing something that should be permanent, longed in the blue eyes of the boy.

She wouldn't look at him. She laid in the hospital bed, eyes portraying betrayal. How could he let the mad man get away with it after he had done this to her? She is paralyzed from the waist down, and it was someone's fault. Whether she blamed the man who laughs or the who hides behind a mask, is irrelevant.

A man in black kevlar and a cowl crouched onto the ground. The area was surrounded by broken pieces of a recently blown up building. He was cradling what could be a child in his large arms. An 'R' imprint on the child's red suit was covered in blood.

It's not his time. He's not sure why he decides it's not his time, he's not sure what's convincing him. Perhaps there's too much left unsaid. Unfinished. He won't let the heart monitor's beeping decrease. He won't let it grow slower.

It's not Bruce's time.

His fingers twitch.

-

"I'm sure there's a way I could repose your worries. Put you in a bed of roses." The man giggled, his broken lips smeared into an ugly grin. Incredibly thin, boney fingers plucked up a syringe and gave a delicate tap at the needle teasingly; the incandescent green liquid swishing from side to side. The man croons under his breath. "I hope you like fire."

"Are you planning to kill me?" Another man, with an indistinctive neck and puffed red cheeks, sat helplessly tied in a portable metal chair. He notices that his arms were tied with his palms upwards, exposing his arm in a very obvious way. He blanches and swallows hard, eyes remaining on the well dressed but frightening man and trying desperately not to think about it.

He worked at the hospital for seven years as a janitor, and with much misery, he wondered what he did to deserve to be the one sitting here hopelessly, rather than the big city doctors that made his life seem inadequate in comparison. Days spilled into nights like the blood he scrubbed tiredly away. Seven years of labor, he thought feverishly, and this is what I get.

The man twirled around with a look of bemusement as if the poor janitor just asked for a vital organ transplant. Then he let out a brutal bark of boisterous laughter.

"Kill you? That's a hilarious assumption! I think I'll have to give you a better nickname than 'Scrubby' now!" He mulls, giggling and leaning closer to the name tag on his shirt. Bob Morrison. "How 'bout it, Bobby?"

Bob pounced harder against the ropes tying him down, wanting more than anything to wipe that malevolent smile on that face. Although, even if he were to break free, the chances that he would be able to take down someone as intimidating as the eccentric character in front of him were not in his favor. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist, or a doctor, to figure out that this man- this lunatic- with grass green hair and a completion as white as paper has more strength then he appears to possess. But with such boney arms and thin waist, the janitor reckoned that the extra strength must come from his ambition and determination. His incentives made him seem bolder. "If you're not going to kill me, what- what are you planning?"

"Bobby! I'm so glad you asked!" His voice is electric, and his animated smile unnaturally wide. He gestures to the syringe, which remained delicately between his fingers. "I bet you're a curious cat, eh? Well, I'd love to tell you all 'bout it, sugar, but where is the fun in that?" His face scrunches up, malicious eyes inches away from the janitor, his breath hot against his face. "I think it's time for a demonstration."

He grabs the man's chair and brings him even closer, before lining up the needle with his veins. The janitor is shaking, making it more difficult. It makes the man chuckle.

"Bobbyyy..." He sighs in a sing-song voice, "you needn't be scared! I'm the one who should be sweating bullets. This is my first time using the needle!"

Before Bob Morrison could register the words, the man raises the tool high above his head and surges it downward into his arm at an eerie angle that makes the pain even harsher. The madman laughs harder, emitting the liquid into his arm.

Bob yelps, a faint feeling developing in his stomach.

"What did you do? Tell me what that was!" He demands frenetically. "What did you do to me, you freak!?"

The man tsks, unimpressed eyes boring into him. "Bobby, Bambi, Boobly. I'm truly disappointed. You think I'm going to just spoil the punchline for you? What kind of comedian do you think I am?"

The janitor's mind blanks. He feels his face muscles twitching, and he can't understand why. Suddenly he's forcefully biting back a smile. It doesn't escape the man's notice. He giggles.

"Two guys walk into a bar. One is tired of the world, he just wants to go home and cry. 'Brings a mop for his tears, and purposely leaves the doors open, disregarding the consequences. It's the same game each time, and he's so, so tired. He becomes careless."

"The other man is swaying in the shadows. He has a game too. He's bored, he's so bored that he breaks into the hospit- excuse me- the bar. He wants to play. He becomes restless."

"Both men realize that they're the same person. They mirror each other. Society... is just one fat mirror. We're all bored and tired. We all want a new game to play."

The janitor's heart is pounding into his ribs, aching painfully. A cold sweat trickles above his furrowed eyebrows. His face hurts. It felt numb. It felt like plastic.

"If you're insinuating that I'm anything like you, you freak, you're-" a misplaced giggle escapes the janitor's lips.

"Shush. Don't spoil my joke. Where was I?" he taps his chin ponderously. "Ah yes! Both men catch each other's eyes. They're the same sad shade of melancholy. Except one is doing something about it. And-" He pauses for a disorderly laugh, his body shaking, and he uses his hands to clutch onto his shirt and holds the bridge of his nose.

"And the other guy, ho ho, the other guy is a lump! He's going nowhere! Doing nothing but playing with the same loaded dice every day!" He bangs his fist against the table, bellowing. "It's- it's ridiculous to imagine, but it's happening! And the other guy, he's changing things. But- but the punchline..."

His face manages to freeze in that time. His pupils are incredibly dilated, his face scrunched up and exceedingly intense. His smile stretched from cheek to cheek, showing off rows of sharp, violent teeth. "The punchline, sugar, is that we indeed are the same people. We're all intertwined. With a kick, maybe a few bites, I can make you see just how close we all are to losing our minds."

The man finally takes a few steps away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He admires his work; what he has done to the poor janitor. The experiment was a success, just like it has been for him. He slowly turns around, surveying the table behind him. He picks up a small mirror. It takes every fiber in his being to not laugh at himself, but he giggles anyway.

"Oh Bobby... The thing is, we are all mirrors," He gazes at himself, caressing his reflection. He glances up at Morrison. "Such shame you couldn't see that before."

Morrison lost the ability to move his lips, but the slightest whisper of a wheezing laugh- or maybe a scream, was audible. The man gives a frightening smile in return. "It's okay Bobby-boobly. I'll show you... everything."

The janitor watched with anticipation as he raised the mirror for him. It was horrible. His face- his face was glowing like snow in the most unromantic, most hideous way possible. His eyes carried more noticeable wrinkles. His hair was the shade of mold. And a smile that stretched like putty and showed more teeth than he ever seen.

"It's time to light a fire, Bobby. It's time to stop mirroring the blues and convert into our next destination. Look at the funny things in life!" He woofs rambunctiously. "Like a guy dressing up as a bat! A bat! Who the hell does that each day of the year?" 

The janitor seethes through fixed teeth, "Betmen-ts?"

The Joker nods with laughter. He laughs and laughs and laughs.


	2. The Fundamentals of Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has awoken and is already learning to regain control of his body, as people do when they awaken from a coma. Joker has already began his next scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't tell if this is good or not pls lemmie know

The doctors and nurses and the help all sported smiles, with teeth that appeared to share the resemblance of sharp knives ready to rip out your throat. Their skin was glowing white, with red lips that seemed to have absorbed all the blood from their faces. Joker thought they all looked ridiculous. Just a lousy bunch of newly sick knock-offs. Though frankly, he shouldn't be mad, it was his idea. But inside a mind like his, madness was all he knew.

After eyeing them over again, he grinned with them and carelessly shot a few for good measure. That'll keep his temper down just a smidgen. He then ordered them to fan out around the hospital. Explosives with colorful wires were tied to their backs, and being held hostage were patients that are screaming like a roaring crowd, begging for his attention. 

An orchestra of police sirens and the whirring of helicopters played in the air. A white beam poured from one of them and shined on the hospital. The spotlight was his. The music was playing. The audience was laughing. It was a masterpiece, just as it should always be. The Joker's eyes were sparkling as he watched from the long glass window, the stars and helicopter lights twinkling like little flashing cameras.

"Puddin', they're surroundin' the place. Should I take out my baby?" Harley Quinn mooched, whipping out her custom-made, ornately decorated revolver and giving it a smooch on the tip. 

Her voice interrupted the beauty of the scenery. 

The Joker's smile dropped, turning his head almost mechanically and giving her a slicing stare. "I don't see the point in asking me if you're going to take it out anyway, Harley." She giggles, letting out a sheepish sorry and slowly lowering the weapon. 

He never understood what inside him chose to always bring her along, especially since he always referred to himself as a solo act. Joker shifted his gaze from Harley back to the window.

Another spotlight comes on, as it always does. Except it's not for him this time, but for his rival. It shines deeply into the dark misty clouds resting in the sky, and displays a symbol of what the folks around here call 'Justice' or 'hope', while others call Joker 'Death Worshipping Garbage' or 'Insane Lunatic'. He thinks there might be a bias. 

From afar, Commissioner Gordon is speaking loudly into his speaker hanging on his left breast pocket. Joker knows he won't interfere with his plans. Only one has the right amount of merit to dance with him. The camera on one of the helicopters zoomed in closer. He smiles more for them, though it's hard for the reporters to tell the difference.

"Oh, look at 'em pretty stars. They're so-" Joker hadn't realized Harley had efficiently wrapped herself around his arm, gazing at the stars with a hopeful glow that radiated from her blue eyes. He shoved her off with enough force to make her fall harshly onto the tiled floor. 

"Harley," Joker snapped, sucking his teeth in. His eyes gazed on the clock for a quick millisecond, before returning, "Harley, do you know the time?" He asked sweetly. 

"T-ten, M-Mista Jay," She stammers, using her palms to lean upward. Joker smiles like a crocodile, before dropping the grin and kicking her in the stomach. 

"No, Harley! It's ten-forty! That's nearly eleven! Not even close to your answer!" 

"Sorry Mista Jay, I- I was bein' stupid. Silly me."

Joker grumbles, pacing back and forth, retracing his steps and replaying scenes of past battles. What was different about this one? He looked at his sidekick for answers, but Harley remained on the floor. Whether because she was in pain or was rendered to afraid to get up didn't matter to the clown.

"Why is he not here yet? Why is he taking his damn time?" Joker asked, his stomach forming knots and patience growing thinner by the second. This was unlike the Bat. It was completely unorthodox, and frankly, unprofessional. 

"Maybe he's just glammin' up for you?"

"Harley!" He yells, and if she were off the floor he'd slap her. Everything that ever spilled out of her mouth was always so ludicrous. "That's not like him at all- are you always such a ditz?"

"S-Sorry, Mr. Jay."

The Joker makes an unforgiving noise, the corners of his lips brought downwards in displeasure. His eyes dart to the clock hanging on the ceiling. 

"Oh, goddammit. I will not be waiting around like an obedient puppy dog!"

"Where ya goin'?"

Joker didn't respond as he ran a hand through his unruly hair and left into the corridor. 

His sidekick sighed, picking herself up from the ground. She clenched her knuckles in anger, before slinking her gun out again and firing at the window, watching it shatter into dangerously beautiful, unfair portions. 

-

The hospital was being run by Joker's men, and to an outsider, it would seem impossible to intervene without one of them landing a bullet between one's brain. But not for Batman. After playing this game many times before, he'd be able to locate the sick bastard swiftly. 

Unfortunately, Batman was locked away in a cage of every memory Bruce had of staying up late on the creation of the suit. Every memory of himself training. Every battle, every person he ever failed, every stranger he ever saved. All the blood he's lost and all the blood he's shed. Batman was trapped. 

Bruce, on the other hand, had finally regained the ability to hold a cup of water properly without spilling it all over him. He hasn't yet been able to gain entire control of his legs, but he could wiggle his toes like a pro. A few people had come by, with faces that could not have been recognized by him. Their voices couldn't jolt back any one of his prior memories. 

Bruce only remembered the basics; how to walk, eat, shit, how politics work, what makes pink lemonade pink; however, Bruce's slight lack of social cues and memory made the casual demeanor of the room seem forced. 

It was unsettling, of course, and the stifled sorrow disguised with relieved smiles only made Bruce feel worse. He was disappointing people, he could feel it. Bruce tried to hide his discomfort and listened to them speak like he belonged in their world. But in actuality, he's now a puzzle piece trying to fit into the wrong frame. There's too much unsaid. Bruce knows it but doesn't quite know how to break the ice.

Each visit was short lived. Richard Grayson, or Dick, easily came off as an easy going but a serious man who appeared younger than Bruce himself. He never made it quite clear how they knew each other.

The other primary visitor was from Alfred Pennyworth, a composed and well-spoken man. Butler or not, Bruce immediately decided he liked him and could tell that they once all shared a mutual bond of care for each other. The men then began to explain Bruce Wayne's wealth, and more importantly the backstory of how Bruce had fallen with such riches. 

Pennyworth knew it should've been devastating to listen to- but perhaps there was a forbidden gleam of hope that the retelling of the terrible event will awaken the man inside. Yet, for the first time in the butler's life, the mentioning of the horrid crime didn't cause a single dark shadow to cross the canvas of Bruce's face. His eyes didn't blacken with the memory of his parents, instead, his hands stayed still, unmoved by his past. 

Bruce coming to an understanding so quickly was so incredibly uncalled for that Dick nearly called Bruce an imposter. Perhaps to any normal person who couldn't recall their memories, hearing the past death of your parents wouldn't phase you quite as much- but Bruce Wayne wasn't just any person. They didn't show their disappointment of course. 

The first evening was filled with the sharing of a few short tales, and each tale ended with some sort of deadpanned jab about the clumsiness or neglectfulness of his daily duties and self-care rituals. Although it was difficult for them to come up with stories that didn't involve Batman in any way, they managed to work around that. Dick even brought a few magazines that focused on the playboy billionaire, and to Bruce's surprise, he seemed to be a bit of a sleaze. 

"Don't pay too much attention to those, Master Wayne." Alfred had said, and continued telling him that it was mostly rumors and the bias views of the media.

Tonight no one is in his room, but he could distinguish screams in the corridor and the sound of bullets flying. It seems as if someone was coming room to room and firing. The window flashed with the reflection of red and blue and leaves shadows along the room. He's already excessively pressed the nurse call button by his bed. Creating a barricade was nearly impossible in his room, and leaving would be a senseless and fatal decision, so, he decided that it would be the fittest idea to stay put for help. 

But panic grew in the deep end of Bruce Wayne's stomach and clogged his throat as the sounds progressed closer. He sat anxiously, his toes curling in anticipation. The miniature cup in his hand began to tremble as if his progress was slowly becoming reversed. 

The gentle ticking of the clock above his bed seemed to have muted, the machines and ballistic shooting quieting down with it. An epiphany of some sort had cast onto Bruce. An assertive whisper behind his ear prompted the patient to drop the cup and rip out the IVs from his lower arm. His hand reached out and grabbed onto the machine that carried the IV pump and used it as a walking stick. 

Hunched over, Bruce moved the small table that stayed beside his bed around in an attempt to create a higher ground behind the door for the event in which someone barged in. It's a rather piteous idea and will likely achieve nothing, but Bruce's instincts suggested otherwise. 

The table felt weak under his weight but nonetheless persisted to stand beneath him. He used both his hands on the wall behind him to balance himself. 

He waited behind the door quietly, listening to the walking of two men come closer. His heart pumped with adrenaline, and it felt so good it almost made him grin. Of course, he didn't. That would be insane.

The door swung open, and in comes a well-built man, wearing nothing but dark colors and a machine gun in his hands. The moment Bruce saw an opening he jumped, landing directly on top of him. However, the man had a lot more strength and girth than Bruce expected, and was toppled off without having any time to snatch the gun away. 

"The fuck..." The man kicked Bruce away, preparing his gun and pointing it forward. However he was cut off by snorting from the other side of the door. A hand grabbed the shoulder of the gunner and jabbed an elbow at his throat, bring him down with Bruce. Bruce scrambled away, his back hitting a wall. 

Out stepped a man with white velvety skin and queasy green hair. 

"Looky looky..." The man crouched and leaned closer, displaying a long toothy smile. The blue and red lights from the outside flashed on his toxic skin, illuminating his feverish eyes and red lipsticked lips. "Quite the fighter, aren't you?"

He stands back up with his long spider-like legs and picks up a file off the table. 

Bruce saw an opening. He could easily kick back the man's leg and buy him some time to escape. He attempted the plan, but only swaddled around like a baby. Whatever gave him that determined boost before has given up and abandoned him. Nothing but exhaustion seeped through his bones.

"Bruce Wayne? As in the billionaire Playboy? Did not see you as a brave one." He crackled, and flung the file across the room. "Unfortunately, you're not a contestant here-"

A loud banging in the hallway startled the both of them. The man seethed quietly, not taking any pleasure in being interrupted. He marched over and ducked his head out. A bullet flew past, nearly shooting his head off. "-but you'll do."

He grabbed Bruce by the arm and placed him in a headlock, pointing his own gun to the patient's skull. 

"What are you doing? Let go of me!" Bruce tried to escape his grasp, but Joker tugged harder and hushed him, pushing him towards the window and throwing him out in one easy motion. It was only a seven-foot fall. Not too shabby.

Joker hadn't jumped yet. Instead the man grabbed one of the white pillows on the now unattended bed and peeked it over into the hallway. Another bullet flew through it. 

"I, pillow, would like a truce," The Joker said in a high pitched voice, barely making out the words through his disguised giggles. 

"Quit playin', Puddin'! You said we'd be doing this together!" Another bullet.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Joker makes the pillow look downward in mock sadness while his other hand pulled a grenade out of his left breast pocket. Harley giggled from down the hall.

"Is Mr. Jay sorry too?" She teased, lowering her gun and her defenses. She started to walk closer, a smile fixing onto her face as she looked at the pillow.

"Not at all!" He shouted, violently throwing the bomb-holding pillow towards her. Joker fell in hysterics and quickly skipped out the window before it blew.

Bruce had barely dragged his limp and heavy body a meter away. His vision was growing darker but his ears were still in use. He used his hands and arms to crawl further away from the sound of feet landing swiftly on the ground behind him.

Two hands once again snatched onto Bruce, and pulled him up close to the madman's pointed face and shook him.

"Don't be such a drag, Brucie. We can't have two no shows tonight, can't we?"

Finally Bruce's eyelids gave in, his mind being swept away from the madness and into a black cape of sleep.

-

Most would say it was only a matter of time before The Joker sunk his teeth into the billionaire. And with his defenses down at a hospital, it was almost too easy for him to slither in. However the public was more fascinated with Batman's no show. 

Why now, when one of Gotham's most iconic figures was now being held captive? Some people protested, begging for the Dark Knight to return. Others were more pessimistic, arguing that without the dark crusader, there is no madman. Batman leaving could be the new beginning this city needs. 

"Only you know where I'm keeping him, big boy. We had a little get together here once or twice, I'm sure. Or maybe not! Maybe you'll have to just find me!"

Bruce's face felt thick with something. Blood? Paint? Make-up? He couldn't make it out. Once he opened his eyes he took in his surroundings. Of course he couldn't recognize where he was, besides in an almost empty warehouse, tied up in a chair, with a camera facing him. He struggled against the ropes but to no avail.

"Oh! Oh, look everyone! Sleeping pretty is awake!" Joker moved the camera closer to Bruce's face. "Unless you want everyone's favorite doll shot to smithereens, I suggest you get your fine derriere back into the game, Batman."

He laughed and twisted the camera back to his face, before turning it off. He set it on the desk behind him, his eyes finding themselves on Bruce. 

"Photogenic aren't you? Hardly surprised." Joker ran a hand through his hair, leaning the sole of his back against the edge of the table. "I'm sure you're all about that glam life." 

"Who are you?" Bruce gasped, his body resting back onto the chair in exasperation. The Joker's face stayed perfectly still, before leaning in with suspicious eyes.

"You don't know me? Me? The Joker?" Bruce didn't need to respond. Joker slammed the palm of his hand on the table, causing the poor billionaire to flinch. "I'm the best comedian on TV yet, baby!"

"I haven't really had the time to watch anything."

"Hm. Of course. You're above that, aren't you?" The Joker crossed his arms, circling Bruce how a predator would with his prey. He shuttered. "But you know of Batman, don't you?"

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

The Joker gasped, before snickering, and then hunching over and wheezing onto the floor. Bruce held his breath and closed his eyes tightly. Maybe when he opened them back up he wouldn't be here. But that laughter- it shook him to the bone. It bounced off the walls and stepped on his nerves and congested his heart. The madman then brought up his hand and placed it on the billionaire's cheek. He didn't move, in fear that The Joker would slit his throat in one fluid motion. 

"Oh, Darling. No one is that stupid. What do you have? Amnesia? Hit your head too hard on the headboards?" He tittered, biting hard on his red painted lips.

"I was kidnapped," Bruce admitted, swallowing down hard. "That's what they say, at least." Bruce, being such an easy target was taken hostage and nearly beaten to death. Bruce, to laid back and unaware of the world around him was captured. Self-absorbed womanizing playboy robbed from his own mansion.

"That sounds fun. Fun fun fun. Are you having fun? I'm having fun. Let's have more fun." He slid back onto his seat behind the desk and opened a laptop. His slender fingers clicked a few buttons, before "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" by Wham! started to play. The madman bobbed his head to the beat, with a smile far too unnerving playing on his lips. 

The whole situation felt ridiculous and almost embarrassing.

The Joker intertwined his fingers together, watching Bruce with a captivating gaze. "We're gonna be here for a long time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap for the second chapter. I hope yall watched that video of a skeleton dancing to "wake me up before you go go". It's a gem.
> 
> PLEASE LEAVE A KUDO OR COMMENT IF YOU WANT. FEEDBACK IS APPRECIATED.  
> Thank you for reading. :)


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